I had to go out Monday night and I drove 7 miles an hour for a good portion of the trip because that's what we do when we go out in the evening in L. A. Rush hour crushes your soul if you're not in the mood to have your foot hovering over the brake and even NPR can't save you.
These slow drives are the worst. The litany is longer and more detailed then because there's more time to look around. He drives this freeway twice a day. We went to a party somewhere on that hill. There's his building. There's the Staples Center--wow, I thought we were having fun at those Clipper games we saw last year. If I exited here, I'd could find my way to that hideous duplex we rented in Culver City. This is how my divorced brain works and I don't know how to stop it. At this point in time, I no longer feel the debilitating heartbreak, but the memories are there just the same. Why, exactly, am I living here?